


Until He Spits Me Out

by notabrawler



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:48:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2427593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notabrawler/pseuds/notabrawler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean trying to punch out every memory of Seth Rollins he ever had, slightly backfires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until He Spits Me Out

The streetlights were so dim in these dark places. These were the places where in stories demons would dwell, monsters would feast and ghosts would haunt. This obscure link to the demented, to the things that everyone feared most, was the link that Dean relied on for comfort. Only, it wasn’t comfort he desired— no, there was no comfort in this savage routine— he merely needed to escape. 

Times like this, he could go to the place in his head, the place where the darkness was so heavy no light could illuminate it; his brain couldn’t reach him because he was in the very shadows of his consciousness. That’s where he belonged, he was born in the shadows and would die there.

His knuckles burned, his hands were bloodied and his breath was ragged. His body was begging for him to quit, every muscle felt so overworked that he thought they all might burst out from his skin. But the pain was distant, the pain didn’t belong to him right now. What belonged to him was lunacy.

—

_“How many times do I gotta say it, Dean? You’re not crazy.”_

_“I’ve been out there punching a brick wall for God’s know how many hours.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his sweater, hiding the evidence from the other man, despite them both knowing the condition of his beaten fists. “So don’t lie and be an asshole.”_

_“I’m not being an asshole,” Seth reached out, hands delicate as they tugged at the fabric of Dean’s hoodie. “C’mon, let me see the damage.”_

_Quick to relent, Dean exposed his hands. Fluff from the insides of his pockets had stuck to the fresh blood. The skin of his knuckles was worn down to red masses that clotted in some places while others continued flowing. This gruesome display roused feelings of shame in Dean. Except not in a way he could understand, because he didn’t regret it— yet the feeling of embarrassment hung over him as Seth carefully examined the scrapes._

_"You really went all out, huh?" Seth was careful to keep the touching light, barely making contact as he turned over Dean’s hand. Long fingers coaxed Dean to twist and pivot in whichever way the younger man’s touch guided._

_“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you got nothing to lose.”_

_Seth turned to the mirror and popped open the medicine cabinet. He was quiet, the only sounds came as he unwrapped gauze from its plastic casing. Pausing for a moment, he looked back to Dean’s battered hands. Then he reached up into the cupboard once more, retrieving a bottle from the middle shelf._

_“Hey, no, no, don’t use that alcohol shit, it burns.”_

_“It’s a disinfectant, Dean. And since you’ve been punching a dirty wall in some seedy back-alleyway, I’m gonna use this alcohol shit whether you want it or not.”_

_They were silent for a few moments, each of their gazes falling to look at Dean’s hands. The light in the bathroom flickered with a faint buzz, crickets and sounds of distant traffic eased in from the screened window. The most distinct smell was from the rubbing alcohol, astringent and sharp as its scent filled the small bathroom. Seth dampened the gauze.  
Offering his hand, Seth issued it open palmed, inviting Dean to place his own on top. With reluctance, Dean complied, settling a jittery fist into Seth’s calm, waiting hand. Bringing the gauze to Dean’s knuckle, Seth swept his thumb softly along the length of Dean’s index finger as he gently scrubbed. The blood rinsed away with the aid of the alcohol, and beneath revealed large chunks of torn skin. However, Seth seemed unphased by this, and continued with a look of focused concern. Once the first hand was done, they moved onto the other, cleaning it up in the same fashion. By the time they were finished, they had used up three gauze pads. With a look that seemed to approve of his work, Seth brought his eyes to meet with Dean’s once more. The look he offered carried nothing but warmth._

_“Not so bad, right?”_

_Dean grunted. He watched as Seth took a bandage from the cabinet and began wrapping the wounds._

_“You’ll be thanking me when they don’t amputate them.”_

_With a wince, Dean flexed his newly bandaged hands. The movement was restricted. “So I can beat the crap out of a brick wall, and you’ll still play nurse and call me sane, huh?”_

_For a moment it didn’t look like Seth had an answer, he kept his eyes down, wrapping up the unused bandages and capping the bottle of disinfectant. Once he had replaced the items, he turned his eyes to Dean. “Well, maybe not sane.” He tentatively placed his hand on Dean’s chest, the thin t-shirt was damp with sweat. Seth moved to where Dean’s heart rested. “But this. Your heart, I mean, I think that part of you is perfectly sane.”_

_Dean plucked Seth’s hand from his chest, intertwining their fingers over fresh bandages.  
“You’re crazier than me, you know that, right?” His words were low and quiet as he squeezed Seth’s hand in his own. _

_“I can live with that.”_

_The men drew closer as the crickets sounded and the traffic continued to rumble somewhere far away._  
—  
The wall felt good. The sound of his skin cracking off the bricks, the scraping of his knuckles against the wall was his essence, part of his being was thrown into every punch. Yet as he fought on, damn near breathless, dizzy and ready to pass out, he knew he had to keep going. He had to keep going until the part of his mind, the part that somehow managed to navigate through the hate, would stop whispering promises that if he broke himself up enough, there might be someone waiting at home to stitch him back together.


End file.
